


Nowhere Man (or, five people who never approached John Allerdyce)

by kaydeefalls



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: 5 Things, Gen, Post-Canon, community: xmmficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-23
Updated: 2007-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things that never happened to John after Alcatraz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Man (or, five people who never approached John Allerdyce)

**i. some kind of happiness is measured out in miles**

It's a crappy truck stop off the I-94, and the little diner attached is well equipped to meet its customers' low standards. The long-haul trucker who picked John up in Nevada is continuing east to New York, where John isn't sure he wants to follow. But it's a long and lonely road, and he'll be able to hitch another ride from some other trucker willing to share his cab in exchange for a bit of conversation to get through the night.

Until then, John hasn't eaten since Kansas, and a plate full of greasy fries is sounding pretty damn good right now.

He doesn't notice her until she's sliding into the seat next to him, and that's no good -- he's technically on the run from the law right now, even if everyone thinks he's dead, and a mistake like this could have seriously cost him. But it's just her, and he somehow gets the feeling that she's not going to turn him in.

"Rogue," he says, trying to sound casual. Through the window, headlights flashing through the night illuminate her wide brown eyes, making them seem to gleam with some preternatural knowledge. He glances down at her hands on the table -- bare hands, gloveless. It's no great leap to figure it out. "Or is it Marie now?"

"Marie," she confirms, meeting his gaze levelly. She was a bit of an open book, once; even when he couldn't figure out what she was thinking, exactly, her emotions had always been written across her face, in her wide, honest eyes. Not anymore. He's not sure which of them changed. Probably both.

He shoves a few more fries into his mouth, just to show he doesn't care what she thinks of him. "Jumped at the opportunity to finally get your hands on Bobby, did you?"

"Boys," she snorts. "That's all you ever think of, isn't it?"

Sometimes, yeah, but he's not about to admit it. "Then why?"

She tilts her head, eying him. "Why should I tell you? Traitor."

"Goody two-shoes."

"Evil minion."

"Coward."

She looks away at that, and he could swear her face even flushes a bit.

"You ran away, didn't you?" he demands. "After all that? Was Bobby really that bad of a lay?"

"It has nothing to do with him," she says quietly, and he knows both that it's the truth and that he won't get any more out of her on the subject.

"So where you headed?" he asks, a bit awkwardly.

She shrugs. "Dunno. Depends who I can hitch a ride from. North, maybe. I always wanted to go to Canada."

"Yeah," John says, although he hadn't planned on it. "Sounds alright."

Marie looks down at his hands, watches him fumble with his food. "Where's your lighter?"

"Lost it," John says shortly.

"Couldn't find yourself another one?"

He fiddles with a fry. It's true, his hands feel a bit empty without it, his fingers twitching nervously, needing something to toy with. And then there's the fire itself, of course; his desire for it is like an itch under his skin, a deeper sort of yearning than he's ever known before. He hasn't used his powers since Alcatraz, weeks and weeks ago; since he stole himself a soldier's uniform and was carted off to the hospital with all the other supposed good guys. He didn't see any other members of the Brotherhood there, but then, there weren't many bodies to be found at all. "Don't really want to," is all he says.

"Yeah," she murmurs. "I think I know what you mean."

John looks her over surreptitiously; same old Rogue, mostly, but there are new shadows behind her eyes, and without her usual protective coverings, he can see that her hands are smooth and elegant. He imagines those long fingers tracing his skin, her soft palms against his chest. It's an old fantasy, one he'd forgotten about, brought back to life by the sudden possibility of her touch. Something Bobby has probably experienced by now. John has always wanted anything Bobby had.

It doesn't take a telepath to read his mind right now, and when he glances up and their eyes meet, she's smirking. He doesn't bother with shame, just leans back and leers right back at her. "So," he says. "You can touch people now."

"I always could," she replies easily. "But it's a bit more fun these days, yeah."

He grins, but only for an instant. "Is it worth it?" he asks. "Don't you miss the power?"

Marie shrugs, her little half-smile fading away. "Everything in life's a trade-off," she says quietly. "There's no cure for that."

There's a part of him that wants to push further, to see if he can hurt her with this new knowledge. Once he would have. But he's seen just a bit too much destruction recently, and it leaves a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. There's a fire going on the stove in the diner's kitchen, exactly fifty feet away, behind that wall but still well within the range of his powers; he blocks his mind to it, suppressing the itch. He could still get the Cure, somehow, he supposes; but like Marie says, it won't actually fix anything.

He looks at her, or she looks at him; and then she's standing, her bare hand outstretched. "I'm going to find a bed for the night, I think," she says lightly. "You coming?"

His plate is still half full of food, but John's not hungry anymore. "Yeah," he says, watching the way the lights from cars on the highway outside shift on her skin, like flames. "Yeah, I am."

*

 

**ii. you tell me that it's evolution well you know we all want to change the world**

"Right," Emma says, her blonde hair pulled tightly back into an unflattering ponytail. Not that it detracts from the overall effect of her, John thinks absently; after all, her breasts are still somewhere beyond magnificent. "You know the drill. Pyro, you follow Bevatron into the vault. Once he gets the loot out, burn the rest."

"Yeah, yeah," John says, bored. This job is pathetically simple, after some of old Magneto's heists.

The sudden grip on his mind is icy, painful. _Don't get cocky, boy_, Emma's voice hisses in his head.

She releases him abruptly, and he realizes that he's fallen to his knees, clutching his skull. It's a bit like that incident at Alkali Lake, actually. Fucking telepaths.

"Get moving," Emma barks. "I'll take care of the front with Roulette."

John struggles to his feet, muttering curses under his breath, but he follows Bevatron through the bank's employee entrance.

"God, I love these new electronic systems," Bevatron says gleefully, pressing his hand to a locked door and jolting it open with one bioelectric blast.

John just grunts in reply.

It's almost _too_ easy, actually. Once they penetrate the vault, the loot – some rich jerk's incredibly valuable collection of gemstones – is childishly simple to get a hold of. They load the jewels and as much of everything else they can fit into the bag Emma provided, and as Bevatron prepares to leave, John turns back to torch whatever's left.

"I wouldn't," someone says from the vault entrance, and John turns to see Bevatron encased in solid ice.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," John grumbles. He starts surreptitiously looking around for a way out, keeping a tight grip on the lighter in his loose jacket pocket. "Can't you jackasses leave us alone for five fucking minutes? Thought you were all still in mourning for the dear departed professor."

Bobby grins, but doesn't give John the slightest opening. Frost continues gathering at his fingertips. "Six months after Alcatraz, and you've already found a new evil mastermind to attach yourself to. Haven't you learned to stay out of trouble yet?"

John shrugs. "Just keep falling in with the wrong crowd, I guess."

"Seriously, John, robbing a bank? How does this further the glory of Mutantkind?"

"The glory of Mutantkind is low on cash at the moment."

"I never heard that Emma Frost lacked funding."

"What you and your precious X-Men haven't heard would tax even Xavier's mental abilities, Bobby, believe me." John starts edging slowly sideways.

Bobby takes a step forward, keeping himself between John and the door. "You could help us with that, you know," he says quietly. "It's never too late to come back, John."

"It's Pyro," John snaps. "And yes, _Iceman_, it's been too late for quite a while now. Haven't you heard – you can never go home again."

"Magneto's over and done with. You want to keep following lesser supervillains around for the rest of your life?"

"Better than following _you_. You fucking morons would have us serving the humans like _slaves_."

"And you'd have us commit genocide?" Bobby asks incredulously.

John shrugs. "Better us than them, man. They'd wipe us out in a second if they could. Look at what they've already done."

"Christ, John, listen to yourself. Magneto's finished. Your little revolution failed."

"Yeah?" John asks, grinning. In his stupid evangelical fervor, Bobby has let his guard down. "You think the old man was the only one capable of making a ruckus? Bobby, you've still got a lot to learn."

With one fluid movement, he has his lighter out and open. Bobby throws up a shield of ice just in time to protect himself from the ensuing fireball, but he's too busy defending himself to stop John. Bevatron's ice casing melted to a puddle from the wave of heat, and though the other mutant's still too stunned to move, John can at least grab the bag of loot from him and get the hell out of there.

"See you later, Iceman," he yells as he's making his escape.

It's the strangest thing, but he could swear he hears Bobby _laughing_, left in the vault behind him. "Yeah," Bobby calls back. "You will."

*

 

**iii. bang bang maxwell's silver hammer came down upon his head**

John sees the first news reports of the Cure's failure while keeping a low profile working in a comic book store in Oklahoma City. He's on a flight to Chicago the next day. There's an old Brotherhood recon spot here, in a shitty little pub near Wrigley Field, and he knows it's only a matter of time.

Every Wednesday night for a month he heads over to the pub and grabs a booth in the back, sipping a pint of Lager and listening with half an ear to the game on the little TV over the bar. He's got a new Zippo in his jacket pocket and a whole lot of patience. It's been more than a year since Alcatraz, and time has only fueled the rage burning deep inside him. He can afford to wait, now that he knows there's finally gonna be payoff.

One night at the pub, a burly older guy stumbles into John's booth, apparently stinking drunk. "Think this is really gonna be their season," the guy informs John, nodding happily to himself. "Yessiree, it's goddamned time for it."

John rolls his eyes and starts to get up, but the other man grabs his arm. "What are you, a fucking Sox fan?" the man half-shouts.

"No," John says, fingering his lighter. "Just gotta go take a piss." He meets the man's eyes coldly as he extricates himself from the drunk's grip.

The drunken Cubs fan's eyes flash yellow.

"Yeah," Mystique says, still affecting the drunken slur. "Think maybe I'll be following you shortly."

John smiles grimly and heads out the back door of the pub, to the alley. It's about fucking time.

Mystique emerges a few minutes later, still in the burly drunk's body. She glances around the alley for a long minute. It's completely deserted, as far as John can tell, except for a couple of dumpsters. Then she shifts into her normal form.

John has his lighter out and the flame at his fingertips in a flash, before she's halfway through the shift. "You think I'd forgotten about your little betrayal, bitch?" he asks. "I've been waiting a long time for this."

She smiles coldly, looking past him. "You know what? So have I." She nods.

There's pain, sudden and impossible, ripping through his back, and John screams, dropping his lighter. He looks down, writhing in agony, to see the tip of a shining metal claw protruding from his stomach.

"Me, too," Wolverine whispers in his ear.

John's last thoughts are to wonder how the fuck those two ever wound up in alliance, and to realize that now he'll never find out.

*

 

**iv. all i can hear i me mine i me mine i me mine **

As evil mastermind lairs go, it's not much, but John can't exactly afford his own private volcanic island just yet, so it'll have to do. Besides, he thinks, looking around in vengeful satisfaction, it's got a certain poetic justice about it that nowhere else would.

Since Xavier's death, the School for Gifted Youngsters had gone to seed; within two years, the X-Men had completely relocated their base of operations, needing to escape the reminder of their more glorious past. He's heard they're working out of Massachusetts somewhere now. Bully for them.

Demolishing the old mansion completely is no easy feat; rebuilding here will take time. But time is something John has in abundance these days; time, and more importantly, the will to see it through. And he's got his own set of minions now to do his bidding, which is a definite plus. It's been a gradual process, pulling his resources together, sending out feelers to those sympathetic to what was once Magneto's cause, consolidating power, but he's getting there. He's definitely getting there. And taking over the property once owned by Charles Xavier is a potent symbol.

"We're ready to start the primary demolition, Pyro," Cannonball tells him, grinning. "You want to set it off, or shall I?"

John grins back. "I think I'd like to get the flame going," he says. "You and team alpha can move in next; you've got command for the rest of the day."

"Fantastic," Cannonball breathes, then turns to the rest of his team. "All right, people, let's go!"

John doesn't really need to bother with a mere lighter these days, given the more complex contraptions he's built for himself, but it feels right today. Cold metal in his hand, the clink as he pops it open, the soft tickle of the tiny flame – it's a bit like coming home.

He sets the fuse and walks away, ignoring the commotion behind him as the old mansion is destroyed. He approaches the tree line, pulling out a cigarette.

"John," someone says, and John nearly jumps out of his skin. No one calls him by his human name these days. He looks up.

"Oh, it's just you," he says snidely. "Trying to stop me? You're a big guy, I'll admit it, but my forces totally outnumber even you."

"No," Peter Rasputin says, voice deep and even. "Just came to watch."

John lights his cigarette with a snap, breathes it in deeply. "Go ahead. I don't care what you do, as long as you don't try to start anything."

"Nothing left to start," Peter says quietly. "Just to finish."

John looks him over. They had never been close, when John was still a student at Xavier's. Peter didn't talk much, and anyway, John had always been too wrapped up with Bobby to much care about anyone else. Peter had always seemed a bit slow, to be honest. Big and strong and stupid. Great soldier, but not much else.

Now John's starting to wonder, though.

"Your buddies in the X-Men know you're here?" he asks nonchalantly.

"I don't know," Peter says, with a strange little smile. "I never asked them."

"Haven't fought you lately."

"Haven't seen much point in fighting," Peter says slowly. "Not for a dying cause."

John smiles.

*

 

**v. making all his nowhere plans for nobody**

One day John goes to the park for his weekly chess game, but Erik isn't there to meet him. And that's how John finds out that the man once known as Magneto is dead.

He sits at their usual spot, staring down at the pale grey and black checkerboard of the little stone table. The surface is clear, empty. Lifeless. Erik had always been the one to supply the chess pieces, smoothly carved shapes of metal that John suspected he had crafted himself, once, when he'd still had the power. Without pawns and queens, bishops and rooks, the stone board loses all its strength, all its mystery, the limitless potential of a game not yet begun.

Without Erik, the game is over.

Five years he's been waiting for Erik to get back in the game, waiting while the sheer strength of Erik's mutation gradually started rejecting the Cure. Every week, Erik seemed to have just a touch more control over his metal chess pieces. Last week he checkmated John without having to touch the bishop that sealed the deal. It had always just seemed like a matter of time, another week, another game of chess that John invariably lost. Just a little longer, and they'd get started again.

But this week, Erik isn't here to meet him, to stretch it out just a little longer. There's nothing left to wait for.

_You've been following him for years._

John jumps to his feet, knocking his chair over in his desperate upward surge. He yanks his lighter out without even realizing it. It's been quite a long time since he last heard that voice in his head, but he hasn't forgotten it.

He looks around carefully, ignoring the curious stares of a few other chess players. There's not a wheelchair in sight, but then, distance was never a great obstacle for the professor.

"You're supposed to be dead," John tells the empty air, suppressing his initial panic.

_Isn't it time you chose your own path for once?_

"I did," John says flatly. "I chose him over you. Brotherhood over X-Men. Or doesn't it count if the path I choose isn't yours?"

_There are many paths, John. Perhaps when you're ready, one will choose_ you.

John waits, sweating, knees slightly bent in a battle stance, lighter out and at the ready, but that's the last he hears from Xavier for now.

It's his move, he thinks, but this a new game entirely, and he doesn't know the rules. That can be kinda fun, though. He looks around and wonders where he should place himself next.


End file.
